


Call / Response

by phalangine



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Get Together, Getting Back Together, Love Letters, M/M, Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7114948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangine/pseuds/phalangine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles and Erik have a real conversation for the first time since breaking up. Charles is looking to avoid confrontation. Erik is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call / Response

**Author's Note:**

> from [this](http://phalangine.tumblr.com/post/140832433506/post-breakup-aus) list of prompts

Charles has a glass of ginger ale and the table to himself. Around him, the party is in full swing; most people have arrived, the penthouse is dotted with groups of people happily chatting away, and only the occasional partier heading to the massive food table breaks the silence in the open kitchen. There are plenty of contented drunk thoughts to blur out the nervous ones; they lie firmly over his telepathy, enclosing Charles in a warm and cozy bubble.

This is not the first party Charles has been to since he and Erik broke up.

It’s barely less terrible than the first.

A year on, and Charles is still hopelessly hung up on his ex. He is aware that he and Erik have been broken up almost as long as they were together. He can’t hurry the process of moving on, though. Making himself search through Facebook photos of parties he knows Erik attended, hunting through them until he finds Erik sitting in a corner, sloppily dressed as he so often is when he’s off-duty and smiling crookedly, is part of that. So is staring at photos of Erik looking happy. Candid shots of him looking absolutely fucking shattered aren’t a panacea to Charles’ pining, nor does it erase the ache in his chest when he sees the harder lines of Erik’s face. He does it all anyway.

The problem with being a rich man whose boyfriend was a well-known lawyer is he and Erik have a lot of mutual friends. A lot of them. _A lot_.

In the first six months, Charles and Erik accidentally attended seven of the same events.

Erik brought a date with him once. Jean Grey did her student teaching under Charles. She and Erik met once and hit it off talking about mutants not being made to fear their powers. At the time, Charles had been jealous. At the party, he left early, too nauseated to enjoy the atmosphere.

This time, Emma is throwing the party.

Usually Emma’s parties are formal; she likes her men in suits, her women in suits, and everyone and everything else in suits. Charles is almost positive her cat, a fluffy white demon Charles adores, who bears the lofty name of Snowball, starts out the evenings in one of his own. This time around, though, Emma’s invite said “chic lounge” instead of “formal (that means a suit and tie, sugar, and please iron your clothes before you arrive)”, and her home is full of people dressed in loungewear of varying levels of presentability.

Charles’ sister and her wife are perfect examples of the spectrum. Raven has on a ratty sweatband with the logo of some famous company sewn into the corner in neon yellow. Her loungewear of choice, to Charles' horror, is her birthday suit. Irene, thankfully, decided to go for actual clothing, all of it sleek and perfectly tailored. Even in sweats, she looks like a dream- a thought he has no sooner had than Irene is glancing over and throwing him a wink.

She insists her precognition works like a net, too large to catch a single insignificant thought, but how else does she anticipate him so well?

Raven quickly regains Irene’s attention with arm around her waist, and the two wander off with mirror-image happy smiles.

Revealed for a second in their wake, the source of Charles’ dismay is leaning brazenly against one of their hostess’ pristine white walls.

Erik is standing alone and has a look on his face that says he is perfectly content to stay that way, thank you. More telling of his mood is the ghastly thing on his head. Perched atop Erik’s mop of messy curls is a hat Emma would never tolerate in a formal setting- it’s such a grungy addition to Erik's sleek outift, Charles is a little surprised Emma is tolerating it tonight. The champagne must really be flowing in her part of the apartment. Erik doesn’t seem any more at ease for the glass in his hand; if anything, he is holding himself so perfectly still, Charles’ back twinges in sympathy.

All the while, the once-neon yellow beanie with the pom-pom on top is pulled low on his head, covering his brow and the tips of his ears.

Charles’ heart aches. He hasn’t seen the sad hat since the weeks before they split.

A couple Charles doesn’t know slips into the space Raven and Irene left but, as HR cranes his neck to see over them, don’t completely obscure Erik from view. He’s too tall, the hat too bright. A bit of mottled yellow pom-pom sticks up over the top of one woman’s bun. One distinctly uncomfortable woman, Charles realizes as he catches a creepy-crawly feeling from her mind. Before he can send a suggestion to the guy checking her out from the corner to move on, though, her mind opens with an image of him.

Mortified, Charles turns away from the hat and back to his soda. _Time to stop staring, old chap._

Before he can reconsider his drink of choice, a familiar voice exclaims, “Charles? Is that you?”

The face peering at him from the far side of the table is so unexpected, and so welcome, Charles almost drops his cup. “Moira! It’s been a while.”

It takes her a moment- she’s buzzing with the amusement of someone pleasantly tipsy, and her brief struggle to align herself with the seat confirms it- but Moira settles into the seat opposite Charles. “‘A while,’” she echoes, lips quirking. “There’s that English sense of understatement. I’ve missed it.”

He snorts, amused despite the tension between them. “No, you haven’t.”

“Not even a little.” She beams at him with a sharp grin. “But I did miss _you_.”

Charles startles, but Moira’s mind says she isn’t lying.

For all their relationship ended poorly, they got along beautifully before that. He had hoped they might find their way back to being friends one day. With Moira back in the country, that might actually be possible.

“And I’ve missed you,” he says, returning her smile. “What brings you back to New York?”

**xx**

 

Charles is on his third cup of soda and in the middle of recounting a tale from the continuing adventures of Hank and Alex when his gift snags on a mind dizzy with unhappiness. He doesn’t need to look to know whose it is.

“Hey- Hey! Are you all right?”

Charles jerks back to himself with a jolt. Moira is frowning at him, but he waves off her concern. “I’m fine. You know how it is- telepathy and small spaces. Lots of people drinking.”

“Bull.”

The problem with exes is they know when you lie. Moira is a forgiving person- it’s one of the reasons they worked as long as they had- but her tolerance for equivocation is nonexistent.

“Mo, please,” Charles pleads, hoping to cut the questions off before they start.

She lets him have a moment to hope it worked, but it doesn’t last. Reaching out, she takes Charles’ hand in hers. When she speaks, it’s in a soft tone he hasn’t heard in a long time. It’s kind and coupled with a welcoming pulse from her mind- a fumbling touch, her non-psionic mind unsure how to make use of telepathy but determined to communicate.  “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Charles can’t bear to look at her. She sees too much.

“Well, he’s certainly a looker,” she says blandly, craning her neck and ignoring his pleas to sit down. Perking up, she adds, “But look at that pout! You always did know how to pick ‘em.”

“Moira!”

“I know, I know.” She sighs. “You can’t blame me for wanting to check out my successor. Especially one who’s been giving you capital l Looks all night. Oh, don’t look at me like that- I’m not being mean. I’ve heard a lot about your beau. Let me enjoy this.”

Clamping down on the urge to reach out and check Erik’s mind, Charles concentrates instead on the steady hum of Moira’s wonderfully organized mind. He lets the thoughts themselves wash unread over him. “He isn’t my beau,” he reminds her. “Maybe he was, but he isn’t now.”

“Whatever you say.”

The funny thing about Moira is that for someone who is so clumsy at communicating telepathically, she has an unmatched ability to work with it. Her mental barriers don’t have a bit of give when she doesn’t want them to- and right now, she doesn’t want them to. Which is strange, because Moira isn’t usually shy about her thoughts.

He means to ask her about it, only for Moira to do what Moira does best: upsetting the balance. With nothing more than a wink to warn him, she hops up and struts around to his side of the table.

Charles watches the sway of her hips with a faint feeling of disappointment. It does nothing for him. He always loved Moira’s body; it mirrors her mind perfectly: sleek, with a firm core, but soft and sweet if she lets you get close. She is a beautiful woman, from her soft hair to her strong thighs. But Charles is used to sharp edges and rough patches. He can’t help but look for stubble on her jaw and firm, muscular planes on her chest. When she hops up on the table and leans in, Charles expects to feel a heavy hand on his shoulder. A broad face nudging at his.

Moira’s pixie-like face, with her big doe eyes and soft pink lips, is beautiful but not what makes him _want_.

Not that he can’t appreciate the view aesthetically. Still- “What are you up to, Mo?”

She doesn’t answer right away, just shakes her head and puts her finger to her lips. What he can feel from her mind without pulling things down is rumbling with the pleasure of having a secret; it’s practically purring “I know something you don’t know” at him.

“Your not-beau,” she murmurs, absolutely gleeful, “looks like total shite.”

“Moira!”

She snickers but pulls back at last. “As your ex, I want to keep this to myself. As your friend, I think you ought to talk to him.” With that, she grabs her glass, smacks a loud kiss to Charles’ cheek, and saunters off with a loud, “Seany boy!”

Charles would like to believe he isn’t a weak man. He has control over his desires.

A glance in his cups over the past few years would prove that’s a lie. So, too, will what Charles is about to do.

_Fuck it._

A year and a half isn’t nearly long enough to kill a response as deeply ingrained as the one that hat inspired.

_Erik?_

Visibly startling, Erik starts glancing around the crowded room. His mind, where Charles is touching it, trembles. Charles doesn’t go deep enough to find out why.

But he wants to. Christ, does he want to.

_Charles?_

_Hello._ Charles sends him the room from his view, and Erik’s eyes snap exactly to where Charles is sitting. He always did respond well to Charles’ gift. _Come here?_

One frustration of being bound to a wheelchair is the unending horror-show that is navigating parties. At home, Charles could just wheel over to Erik. Here, with all these people, he’s stuck sitting in one spot all night. He could transfer to his chair and go to Erik himself, but that’s the sort of endeavor for people who have time. Which Charles does not have. He needs to get to Erik and that hat as soon as possible.

With those long legs and enviable ability to shimmy, glare, and shoulder his way through crowds, Erik gets to the table far faster than Charles could have gotten to him on his own. He takes a seat without prompting but immediately coughs and looks away.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, lifting his gaze to meet Charles’. His mind is humming with anticipation. But of what?

“I-” _have to know what’s wrong; saw you wearing your sad hat and had to see you; miss you,_ “-thought we should talk. We haven’t since we- you know. Broke up.”

He doesn’t show it, but Erik’s mind falters for a moment, deflating only to swell up with determination. It’s a terribly _Erik_ reaction, and Charles chest gets painfully tight.

“Yes. Of course. We see each other often enough. There’s no point pretending this isn’t uncomfortable. We may as well get past that.”

“Exactly. No sense hiding from reality, eh? I thought I’d just have done with it and let you go on your way.”

Instead of agreeing as Charles had expected, Erik’s mind darkens. His jaw twitches.

Charles may as well have thrown down a gauntlet. He forgot how laterally Erik thinks. Nothing Charles says is understood the way he means it. “That is,” he hurries to add, “I didn’t want to make you dwell on something painful.” He stops, bites his lip. “I don’t know about you, but seeing you is difficult. I keep having to fight the urge to take your hand. It’s such a little thing, but it’s automatic now. I see you; I want to touch you.”

“I felt your chair in the elevator when you arrived,” Erik admits softly, “and I had to stop myself from walking over.”

“Well, at least we’re in it together, eh?” Charles chuckles wetly.

Erik’s lips thin. Absently, he tugs the hat lower. “Are we?”

“Sorry?” Sensing an argument, Charles pulls himself out of his slouch.

“I said, ‘Are we?’ As in, are we in this together?"

Charles frowns. He had thought they separated amicably, but this… Erik is more than unhappy about something, and it’s something to do with Charles. “I’m not following. Are you- Did I do something wrong?”

Erik chuckles darkly. “No, Charles. You didn’t do anything. I suppose that’s the problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Leaning in, Erik says lowly, “October 6, 2015.”

Charles’ world flies apart.

 

**xx**

One thing all Charles and Erik’s friends agree on: no one expected them to break up the way they did. They came together so fast; every step of their relationship was wild and passionate and impossible to ignore. It only made sense that the end, if it came, would be the same. There would be screaming and broken plates, complaints from all the neighbors with the police. Charles would turn quiet and fierce; he would be inconsolable for weeks, months after. Erik would pull away like he always does when he’s hurting and won’t let himself stop to mourn. All their loved ones and coworkers would know the day after they fell apart.

In reality, the end of Charles and Erik began with an argument no louder or harsher than any other, moved into a quiet pulling apart, and ended with a U-Haul truck filled with roughly half the things that were once _theirs_ but had become _Charles’_ and _Erik’s_ parked on the curb.

Erik was there when Charles got his things; he helped carry them out. It took three hours. Three hours of trying to make Charles look him in the eye as they packed away a year of their lives. Three hours of reminding himself not to start fights over the cutlery just because he couldn’t fight over the end of them.

That was six weeks ago. Now their apartment looks like Erik’s old one: pathetic and unfriendly. He put away the photos Charles didn’t take. The dishes are clean and stacked in their rightful cabinets. The bed is made, and the laundry has been folded and hung up. Erik’s shoes are lined up neatly on the tray by the door. The kitchen table is empty.

Charles got the sofa. It was a large multi-sectional, the sort that takes up an entire wall and has enough spring under the cushions that Erik didn’t hate sleeping on it sober. Erik has yet to replace it. He ought to; without it, the living room has an obvious empty space around the edge.

No amount of vacuuming has fixed the impression the damn thing left in the carpet.

Erik has never much liked carpets. They’re expensive and hard to clean, they always get dirty, and he’s never seen the appeal of rug burn. It hurts in the moment, and it hurts afterwards. He had been considering wooing Charles into letting him pull it up and replace it with something easier. Some nice linoleum maybe. He’s single now, though. The floor is his. He doesn’t have to woo anyone.

Half a year in, Erik found out you can get carpet burn from falling off a recliner if you do it hard enough.

They agreed when Charles took the sofa that Erik should keep their bed.

Staring at it from the doorway, vacuum at his side, he isn’t sure that was as kind as Charles seemed to think.

He remembers the day they bought it as clearly as he does every misadventure Charles got them into. They only went to the mall to buy towels, but they had passed a mattress store on the way. _Erik,_ Charles had said urgently, coming to a stop so quickly Erik almost wrenched his shoulder out. When he turned to look, Charles was pointing at a sign in the window. _Queens for sale,_ he wheezed, far too taken with the model grinning falsely from her perch on an overly-large mattress. He insisted on going in, reasoning their mattress was coming up on seven and it couldn’t hurt, and Erik indulged him. Not half an hour later they had emerged with a receipt for a queen sized mattress/box spring combination. It was too expensive by half, but Erik was caught up in the warm bubbles of joy pouring off Charles.

Going a month without cleaning would have been unimaginable before Charles.

It scarcely makes him itch now.

He starts with the far corner by the closet. Typically, he vacuums the same way he cleans, with his gift doing the heavy lifting, but tugging the bulky vacuum around by hand is a nice kind of burn. This was his job when he was a boy, and he had been pleased that Charles had stopped fighting him on housework after the first couple weeks. He clips himself in the foot more than once and nearly rams one of the legs off the bureau when he gets too caught up in the motion and the electricity humming softly at the edge of his mind, but it’s good.

Erik is good. He’s survived deeper blows to his heart than a simple breakup. Charles is alive and well, and they don’t hate each other. The catch in Erik’s chest will ease in time. Until then, all Erik has to be is good. Which he is. Not happy or content, but not bad either. Good.

Until he finds the box.

HaShem give him strength, when he finds the box, Erik is anything but good.

****

**xx**

_November 5, 2014_

Dearest Erik,

Those were my nice socks, knobhead. For my normal-sized feet, not those clown shoe-sized things you have. You owe me ~~a new pack~~ two new packs.  
And you better be quick about it. It’s getting cold.

I might still love you even if you don’t,  
Charles

_December 31, 2014_

Dear Erik,  
My resolution for this year is simple: I’m going to hold onto you forever.

I love you so much, I’m getting trite,  
Charles

_January 1, 2015_

Dear Cohabitant,

I take it all back.  
You’re a wanker, and I dislike you intensely.  
Kraftwork has no place in this home before ten PM.  
It is currently seven AM.  
That banging in the kitchen better be you making me coffee.

Have mercy,  
Charles

_February 14, 2015_

Dear Erik

I am going to shag you senseless.

Love,  
Charles

_February 14, 2015_

Mission accomplished.  
-Charles

P.S. I just took so many pictures of you. Your bedhead is adorable.

_April 1, 2015_

My dearest Erik,

I am going to get you so good.

xoxo,  
Charles

_April 1, 2015  
_ Dear Erik,

Not. Nice.

-Charles

P.S. If the neighbors complain, you’re dealing with it.

_May 15, 2015_

Erik,

I love you.

-Charles

_May 16, 2015_

Dear Erik,

I am not a violent man. But someday, if ever I get up the courage to give you these, you should know- if I ever met him, I think I would kill Shaw. If it would bring you peace, I’d kill him a hundred times.  
A thousand times.  
I didn’t understand what you meant when you said you needed to do something after your parents’ deaths. Not really.  
I hit the door earlier. My hand hurts. I think I may have broken something.

If only kisses actually made things better.  
-Charles

P.S. Somehow, I think you would hate me if I did kill him. But I want you to know I would. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.

_June 20, 2015_

Dear Erik,

I am so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Please don’t hate me,  
Charles

_June 20, 2015_

I hate myself. This was supposed to be about you.  
We were going to go on vacation and have fun, and I ruined it.  
I wish I knew why I always say the wrong thing.  
This shouldn’t happen. I’m a telepath, for fuck’s sake.  
You deserve better.

_June 20, 2015_

Erik.

You’re sleeping now. Beside me. In our hotel bed.  
I haven’t a clue why you came back.  
But you did.  
Good God, you came back to me.

I’m too scared to ask why, but I’m dying to know,  
Charles

_July 4, 2015_

Dear Erik,

That wiener joke was good, and you know it. I saw you laughing!  
Don’t tell anyone, but the beer they loved so much?  
Imported.

Shhh,  
Charles

_July 4, 2015_

A poem:  
Roses are red,  
Violets are blue,  
The Statue of liberty’s a babe,  
And so are you.

Alternatively,  
The best things in this country are imports:  
Englishmen, tea, and blood sports.  
But the thing most due ado  
Is you.

 

_September 23, 2015_

One of the kids saw the picture of us I keep on my desk.  
She said you were hot.  
I’m not sure how I feel about it. Obviously I agree. Your face is lovely.  
And your arse isn’t bad either.

What was I talking about again?  
Charles

_October 3, 2015_

WE ARE GETTING SO DRUNK THIS WEEKEND

_October 6, 2015_

why do i work in a school  
pls bring coffee and those lovely gloves of yours

_October 6, 2015_

You brought me coffee.  
If it wouldn’t sound like a joke, I’d ask you to marry me.  
I love you, darling.

Marry me someday,  
Charles

_October 7, 2015_

Erik.

You make me so happy. And angry.

Please let me in,  
Charles

_October 31, 2015_

You fool.  
NO ONE IS TOO OLD TO BE THUNDERCATS!!!

 

_November 12, 2015_

Darling,  
Your heart is gold, my love. Terribly, terribly soft, and precious.  
It’s my greatest treasure.  
Don’t let it be twisted into something it wasn’t meant to be. Please.  
  
I ache for you,  
Charles

 

_November 27, 2015_

We never have to go back. I’ll disown the lot. I don’t want them.  
Raven and Irene are all the family I need.  
And you.  
Please don’t hate me.  
I couldn’t take it.  
  
Charles

_December 4, 2015_

Sometimes, I say the wrong thing and hurt people.  
But you say hurtful things on purpose.

 

_December 5, 2015_

I might hate you.

_December 5, 2015_

No, I don’t.

_December 6, 2015_

Our bed is cold.  
Come back.

 

_December 10, 2015_

Don’t ignore me.

_December 11, 2015_  
I swear, Erik, you’re doing this on purpose.  
Talk to me! Shout at me!  
Don’t just hide ~~from~~ things against me.  
I can’t fix what I can’t see.

_December 19, 2015_

Dear Erik,

Where have you gone?  
I barely feel you in my head anymore.  
I miss you.  
I don’t know if you want me to.

What’s going on?  
Charles

_December 25, 2015_

Ha. I always did hate Christmas.

_December 31, 2015_

Fuck new year’s, fuck you, and fuck this.

_January 1, 2016_

Fuck me.

_January 2, 2016_

Erik, darling. I miss you.  
-Charles

 

_January 20, 2016_

I can’t do this.  
You won’t look at me.  
The last time I let my telepathy reach for you, you kicked it.  
I forgot how much that hurts.  
My fault, really- you never did hit softly.

 

_February 1, 2016_

Goodbye, Erik.  
Maybe you know what went wrong. Maybe not. I don’t.  
Either way, we’re miserable.  
So here’s me letting you go.  
I love you.

I’m leaving my heart in your care.  
I know you’ll be careful with it.  
You’re not half as cold as you think you are.  
I love you.

-Charles F. Xavier  
P.S. Be happy.  
Please.

****

**xx**

 “You couldn’t have thought I wouldn’t find them,” Erik continues. He doesn’t lean away. “They were in a shoe box under the bed.”

“I wasn’t exactly thinking, you know, about that. And when I remembered, I figured you wouldn’t go looking at one of my shoe boxes.”

“You wrote ‘definitely not suspicious’ on it.”

Charles’ cheeks heat. “That was- not intentional.”

“You were drunk.”

“Shitfaced.”

Erik snorts and shifts back. “Your handwriting was legible.”

“I’m a primary teacher,” Charles reminds him mildly. “My handwriting is pathologically legible.”

“You’re also a doctor.”

 _Ah._ “Fair point.”

The words are honest, but they fall flat. The entire conversation falls flat. Charles used to talk to this man about education- he railed to Erik about the inequality of funding, how demoralizing it was to see happy children turn into wrecks over something as silly as a letter. Erik would do the same, talking furiously through the frustration he had with the justice system his clients could never hear him speak on Charles’ waiting ears. Charles misses airing their simultaneous, parallel grievances ferociously.

He opens his mouth to ask what Erik’s doing now, only for Erik to reach up and pull off the hat. He scratches at his head with his free hand, the other clutching the awful beanie hard, and a lost look morphs his lovely features into something tired and worn.

“Why did you call me over, Charles?” he asks

“You were upset.”

“So you read my mind.”

“I’m not blind,” Charles reminds Erik sharply. He gestures at the hand now twisted in Erik’s hands. “They can probably see that ghastly thing on Mars.”

Erik glances down. “So?”

“So?”

“That’s what I said. If you wouldn’t mind saying something I didn’t say first, I’d appreciate it.”

“Honestly, Erik. I know the sad hat when I see it.” At Erik’s frown, Charles groans. “Don’t tell me you never realized that every time you get upset, you put that on.”

“Huh. I never really noticed.” Erik tips his head. “How come you did? Not to rub salt in the wound, but you’re not the most observant of men.”

“Maybe not, but you were special. I noticed everything about you. Well, almost everything,” he amends sadly. They did break up, and the reason Erik pulled away is as mysterious as it was when Charles spent that first, horrid night alone in his new flat.

Erik accepts that more readily than Charles would have thought.

Then again, this scruffy man bears little resemblance to the immaculate lawyer who gleefully taught Charles to carve a flute from a carrot.

Someone, probably Moira, shouts something indistinguishable, save that it’s happy, and a moment later, Emma comes striding through the crowded room with a look of unearthly fury. Her perfect nails are probably going to get ruined somehow, Charles thinks distantly, only to recognize a moment later that the thought has a distinctly Erik tinge.

“Don’t,” Erik says before Charles can apologize. “You’re fine. I’ve missed sharing space like that.”

“Didn’t you go out with that-” Charles shuts his mouth, but it’s too late. Erik’s eyes are brighter, his slouch straightening.

“You were checking up on me, weren’t you?”

“It just seemed so soon…”

Erik tenses. “It was two months after, and we only went out once.” Softening, he adds, “We both knew it would never work out. She’s too young for me, and I was just a way of punishing Scott for her. To say nothing of her gift not making me feel the way yours did-”

This time, Charles sits up. “I thought you hated my gift.”

“I love your gift,” Erik corrects, sounding confused.

“Oh, is that what you meant when you kicked me out of your head? When you told me I had no right to touch your mind, you were actually saying you love my gift. Of course.”

“You know I don’t like you doing that when I’m angry!”

“You never told me that.”

“Of course I did. I must have… at some point…” He blinks, realization dawning. “I never told you not to.”

Charles nods. “I suppose I should have picked up on the pattern, but I was so concerned about you, I didn’t stop to think I might be making it worse.”

They lapse back into silence, though this one feels more like the ones he used to live for. Erik is watching him fondly, the hat has been abandoned on his lap where Charles can’t see it, and Emma’s muffled voice is berating someone for something that’s making the other guests laugh.

“We should get back together.”

Charles chokes and has to take a quick swallow of his drink. “I’m sorry,” he says when he can breathe again, “but I could have sworn you just said we should get back together.”

Erik nods. “We should.”

“You realize that didn’t end well last time.”

“You realize that doesn’t mean it can’t end well this time.”

“Erik.”

“Charles.” He squares his shoulders. “Please come back. I miss you. Our bed is terrible without you. I don’t know how to sleep when you’re not there. Every time I tried to date someone else, all I could think of was what you’d be doing instead. What you’d say, what you’d wear, the way you drool when you sleep on your side…” His jaw works, and his eyes drop to the table before flicking back up and meeting his steadily. “I love you, Charles, and I want you back.”

This is not how Charles pictured the night going. He figured there would be dancing, someone would be an ass about his chair, Emma would swan over and force Charles to be personable. He would oblige and try not to want to trade his drink for something harder.

Well, he certainly found some _one_ hard.

Or did he? It took work to be with Erik, but being with him was easier in more ways than it was hard. The good was good, more than the bad was bad.

Erik wants him. Charles wants Erik.

Why the hell not?

“What about Jean?”

Erik pulls a face. “That was stupid. It never would have worked. It was just after I found the letters, and I wanted to upset you. Jean wanted to get back at Scott. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It was a hurtful idea,” Charles says, placing a hand over his stomach as the phantom memory of the hangover the morning after unsettles him. “She was my student, Erik.”

Biting his cheek, Erik ducks his head. “You’re right.”

Charles tries to keep the surprise off his face, but he knows he fails. “I’m right?”

“I want you back,” Erik repeats. “I don’t mind being wrong if you’ll take me back.”

Not being wrong is a big thing for Erik. Everything is a fight with him. He loves a win and doesn’t mind a draw if the fight was good, but a loss… Charles reaches for the nearer of Erik’s hands. When he has Erik’s eyes on him, he says, “I’m not moving back in right away.”

Erik beams. “No, of course not.”

“And I want the letters back.”

“You’re not getting them.”

“Erik…”

“Is this going to be our first fight?”

Why does Charles like this man again? “Don’t change the subject, and if you’d just give me those stupid, embarrassing things-”

“They’re not stupid. They got me through losing you. I don’t want you throwing them out.”

Charles comes to a halt, protest tripping on his tongue. “But they’re awful.”

“You wrote them.” Erik shrugs. “If I agree to give them back,” he offers tentatively, “will you keep them somewhere I can read them when I like?”

This is why Charles likes him. Who could say no to Erik when he asks like that? “You know what, darling? You should keep them. I did address them to you, and I did hope you’d read them someday.”

Erik’s smile is bright and wide enough to hurt, and it only gets bigger when Charles tugs him closer to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.


End file.
